WolfLock - Interactive Fanfiction!
by ArtisticGallifreyan
Summary: Post-Baskerville, John is dealing with the repercussions of being bitten by an actual werewolf at Dewer's Hollow, unbeknownst to Sherlock Holmes. However - This fanfic is a little different to what you're used to - YOU get to write the next series of events / the next chapter! Details inside! Or PM me for more information!


**Author's Note (and request): Hello my lovely readers. I hope you enjoy what you read, however as you saw in the title; this will not be your conventional type of fanfiction following a linear orderly order of chapter - chapter - chapter and so on and so forth. Nope, this will be a two – way thing, and shall work like this.**

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_1) This is my introduction, my starter… A gateway, if you will, to something we can both have a little fun with._

_2) I am John Watson; well, I'm going to be writing third-person as John Watson. I can also pick up a smorgasbord of other characters from the BBC adaptation of Sherlock, and you can play anyone you like. My only, only teeny, tiny request is that you play the knight in his Belstaff coat. Ahem – I mean Sherlock Holmes (we are all thinking it…). You can pick up more characters, or you can just play him; I'm totally fine with whatever your choices may be._

_3) The plot? We can make it whatever and however you want – The direction is yours to take! However, if you feel you want a bit of guidance, a loosely put-together plot I had was 'Post Baskerville, John has been bitten by a werewolf bite from a subject that had actually escaped from the Baskerville laboratories. The duo have since returned to Baker street, but strange murders cropping up in London (plus John's new ailment) will force the pair to trace their case back to Baskerville, where all this madness started._

_4) Oh yes, how does this work? I did mention I'd explain it, didn't I? Okay, so below this commentary you'll see the introduction to a story. Your job? (Don't worry mate, it's easy!), carry on the story! Keep this a two way street. Essentially it's a roleplay, but hell – I've never done it like this before, and I sure as heck want to try (that, and omegle is becoming a desperate point to spew my muse onto the computer…)._

_5) Next point; how do you send me your reply, and what will I do with it? Well to put your concerns at ease, I don't plagiarize – Your reply can simply be for our eyes only, or can be credited to your page/account and uploaded as a follow up chapter. The logistics of it are still in the planning stages, but just keep that in mind. We could possibly end up with four or five variations of a reply to my intro / post, but wouldn't that be fun? :D_

_6) You can send me your reply via pm, or PM me for my email address and send it to me there._

_7) Best of all… Have fun! And for all my readers / subscribers / followers, House Meet Who and Petrificus Totallus both have chapters in the making. So stress less ^_^ All good things come, in time. And any questions please PM me! I'm an open book! _

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"That can't be right…"

John wasn't entirely sure as to how long he'd been standing in front of the bathroom mirror, his shoulder arched forward and sideways in an awkward manner as he curiously studied the tender pink lines strewn across his skin. Fresh scar tissue was never soft on the eyes, but what was more worrying was the fact that these 'scars' had been open, pus-filled wounds two days ago, concealed under the safety of bandages he had taken extra care to avoid from Sherlock's watchful gaze. He winced as his index finger gently prodded the skin, and recoiled as a twinge of rawness shot through his shoulder; a painful reminder that what had happened, had _actually _happened.

_It was a dog. I saw it. It was a dog… _

_We shot that dog._

_It was just a sodding dog!_

Adjusting his posture, he hurriedly twisted the taps to let cold water gush from the faucet, for which his hands gladly dove underneath the torrent. No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to shake the memories. Worse still, he couldn't seem to allow his brain to rationalize with what he _thought_ he saw, and what he _had_ actually seen (up close and personal, in fact).

That fateful night Sherlock had sunk to the paper-white complexion of a ghost after he claimed to have seen a raging, glowing, red-eyed monster in Dewer's Hollow (which had later been 'proved' to be the conjuring of ground-powered mist-laden LSD), John had the displeasure of _actually_ seeing something as he had run to the aid of his friend. Worse still, the 'thing' he saw had made a mince out of his shoulder from a freak ambush. It had completely sideswiped and flanked him, and had bared itself to the army doctor while a guttural growl rumbled continuously through it's throat; it's teeth moistened with steaming saliva that dripped to the forest leaves below. And while most of it had been concealed by the darkness of the night, the light of the full moon had been enough to give a rough 'outline' of the beast; a reason while John was still coming to terms with the notion that he may have been bitten by a -

_Why are you even considering it John? It was a dog! It… It had to have been a dog. It had to have been…_

Whatever it was, that '_thing_' had taken him by absolute surprise and John had been positive at the time that it would have ended him, had it not been for Henry Knight's shrieks echoing across the Moors.

He could remember the aftermath of the attack. He was scared; the creature had disappeared and a series of gashes oozed from his shoulder. If it hadn't been for the sweater he had chosen to take off earlier on because he had been a little warm from the running, Sherlock _would_ have seen the wound. Hell, maybe he knew about it, but he hadn't made mention of it. Perhaps he didn't care, or perhaps he was still a little shaken from his admittance of mistrusting his senses? Either way, John was glad somewhat for the ignorance.

So all in all, he had made the choice (at the time), to conceal it from his friend. Why? Because Sherlock clearly had enough on his plate; John had rationalized that what attacked him _was_ simply the rabid dog that was eventually shot, and he assumed that everything would return to normal. After all, the wound apparently couldn't' have been _that_ deep; it had stopped oozing when he had returned to the Bed and Breakfast. Oddly enough, it didn't appear to need stitches, but he could have _sworn_ it required stitches…

_It was at least an inch deep._

Well, bringing himself to the present hadn't quite brought him much relief from the situation. It had been a good two days since they had arrived back from Baskerville, and _not_ _even_ two days post-attack, and the inch-deep gashes were healed. Adding to that and since lunchtime yesterday, he was getting hot flushes, his skin would occasionally clam-up and then get cool, and he was exhibiting the signs of what appeared to be a fever, just without the 'actual' fever. He found himself to be a little more emotionally volatile, and his appetite was starting to become mildly insatiable. _And_ this morning, the metallic taste of blood had filled his mouth as he had brushed his teeth, but he didn't have any sign of periodontal disease. Stranger still, he could have sworn he almost _liked_ the taste of… Well, he wasn't game to admit it. A rabid dog had already attacked him; he didn't want to start believing he was turning into some sort of nut job with a bloodlust.

John _knew_ for certain this was anything but a normal scratch, but he didn't want to burden Sherlock with worry (not that he'd _worry_, per say, but rather treat John like the contents in the Petri Dishes on the kitchen table. He continuously felt himself bringing himself in check by making small rationalizations here and there to soften his worries, but every effort proved futile.

Realizing he had left the tap on, he cranked it shut, quickly buttoned up his shirt, threw over a sweater and ambled quietly into the living room of the quaint little flat, his eyes scanning for the nearest newspaper, or his laptop (either of which, could easily be in Sherlock's possession). When that man would finally learn to respect other people's property and use his _own_ laptop, he'd never know.

"Lestrade give us anything interesting to poke about?" He quipped, his backside instinctively finding his favorite chair, for which he gladly let gravity do the work and guide him to the comforts of his Union Jack cushion.

"There was an email from a girl called 'Lucy', I believe… Something about a cat that went missing." He chuckled. "But I'm sure we can hold out for New Scotland Yard to send over something mildly interesting, hopefully something at _least _a 6."

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**Author's Note: Your turn!**


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